12.24.2013

I apologize in advance for the length of this
post. Consider this a disclaimer for length.

I moved to the East for a challenge. I knew the
road leading to Lomié was bad before coming here, but during my initial move, I
thought it wasn’t too awful. Oh, how wrong I was. Please take a seat and listen
to what my most recent trip upon the Abong Mbang Express had to offer.

I was living on $5 for quite a few days and I
realized it was high time to get my butt over to Bertoua to do some banking.
Thinking that I was the Queen of the road, I figured I could leave Lomié Monday
and return on Tuesday – this is called an aller retour­, round trip. I
went to the gare in Lomié and bought my ticket for the only bus on
Monday, which happened to leave at 3:30am, as they always do. I bribed the
ticket seller $1 to save me the stick-shift seat up front with the driver, and
then I headed home and got to bed early so I didn’t sleep through my alarm.

The next morning, power was out. I stumbled
around my still unfamiliar house, made some oatmeal and coffee, and tried to
gather my things. I walked the short distance to the bus station in fear of
being bitten by a green mamba snake, which have indeed been spotted outside of
my house. After far too many missteps due to both uneven ground, mistaken green
mamba sightings, and for being far too distracted by looking up at the brilliant
stars, I finally arrived at the bus station promptly at 3:25am to find myself
to be only the third person to arrive. I sat and waited. And then I waited some
more. At about 4:00am more people began to show up along with the bus driver
and the ticket seller. At about 4:15am my name was called out and I hopped in
the front seat, smashed for the next several hours between the bus driver (who
was thankfully not hung-over or drunk as far as I could tell) and a mama.

The bus finally started moving. The lights were
turned off, but the Hindi Bollywood music and Ricky Martin CDs were turned on…loud. Despite this, all the Cameroonians managed to fall asleep.
Unfortunately the same could not be said for me. This was not only due to the
blaring music, but also to poor road conditions. With every pothole in the
already unpaved road, our minibus moaned, creaked, and made a sound that seemed as
if a very important piece was dislodged. We made a stop every 30 minutes or so
for the driver to ask hitchhikers where they wanted to go. If their destination
suited him, they climbed on in our already over-packed minibus.

The sun began to rise and paint the horizon
brilliant shades of pink and purple that no painter's pallet could create. I
peaked behind me at the other dozing passengers and noticed that our what
should be 11-seater bus was holding 20. A new row of passengers was added
behind the driver and were forced to face backwards, there was an additional
person added to each row, there was one guy who literally had to lay across all
the passengers in row 3, and an additional passenger had to ride with his torso
outside of the side window due to the lack of space. This is not to mention the
handful of chickens that also joined us for the journey. At one point, a guy was riding on top of the van.

Just as I marveled at this incomprehensible
feat, and after patting myself for making the smart decision to buy myself the
front seat (no extra passengers can be added to the front!), I noticed the
driver stick his head out of his window and yell something to the passenger who
rode with his torso out of the side window. The car came to a halt and several
passengers climbed out. After a few minutes, we discovered we had a tire
problem.

With this revelation, everyone fumbled their way
out of the bus – except me. I sat in my seat, enjoying the extra space and I
tore open the crackers and peanuts I brought for the ride. After 45 minutes, I
began to get restless…and I realized I really needed to pee. I got out and
walked up and down the road looking for somewhere to pee in private and found
no such location. The other passengers were conversing, feeding their children,
or in the case of many of the men, drinking whiskey sachets. I walked over to
one of the nearby passengers and asked where I could pee – she merely pointed
me to the direction of one of the huts. I walked over and asked the man who
lived in the hut if he had a latrine. He laughed at me and said no and instead
pointed to the forest – good enough for me. I walked a minute into the forest
and did my business, hoping that none of the leaves I used to clean myself were
poisonous.

I walked back and joined some of the other
women. We waited and watched the men change the tire. As we waited, the
villagers went about their daily lives, probably quite accustomed to vehicle
problems along this road. I noticed one lady leading her son by the hand. Her
child, whose age is impossible to guess – perhaps 2? – was likely the most
malnourished child I have seen thus far. He was the poster child for
Kwashiorkor malnutrition. His hair was discolored, he had edema all over his
body, with particularly swollen joints, and his empty belly puffed out like an
old man’s. The mother plopped the kid down and began to bathe him with cold
water. He cried out for a second, and resigned to the fact that crying consumed
energy he did not have. While malnutrition is common in the Northern regions
because of the lack of food, malnutrition in the East makes no sense given that
food is abundant. The East is the most underdeveloped and poorest health region
in Cameroon, facts that are absurd when you notice the abundance of food and
natural resources that surround you. After another 30 minutes or so our van was
repaired, which put an end to the agony of watching the little boy. Soon again,
we were off.

On the Road to the Big Mud Pit

With the sun now risen, there are certain things
you can’t help but notice along the road. One being the Baka pygmies. The Baka
are a pygmy group that live in East Cameroon, Central African Republic, and the
Congo. They are physically distinctive from other Cameroonians, not just by
their short stature, and also by the large rattan woven sacs they all port on
their backs to and from their fields – sacs, which I might add, are about as
tall as they are. When taking the road to or from Abong Mbang, you can’t help
but noticed that when you drive by, the majority of the older Baka walking
along the road, jump off and into the forest and sometimes try to hide
themselves – perhaps in fear of the quickly moving vehicle, or perhaps in utter
shock at the new way of life that is even more quickly encroaching on and
threatening their traditional, and might I argue less complicated and better,
way of life.

Deforestation is another phenomenon
characteristic of the Abong Mbang voyage. Huge logging trucks, called boubillers,
are every present along the road. Some carry the center sections of four very
large, hundred-year-old trees, while others carry merely one giant section of a
perhaps thousand-year-old tree. As you increase the distance from Lomié, the
deforestation is more obvious, particularly since you are leaving the area of
the forest protected by UNESCO. With every boubiller we pass, I can’t
help but to think of the empty plot of land left behind, the stories that tree
could tell of the forest which was previously unpenetrated.

And on we drive – past the halfway point of
Mindarou where the road improves. As we speed up and down the dirt paths, I
look out the window and see grade A protected animals for sale, such as
pangolins, monkeys, and lievres, all hung up by their tales on tall
sticks for passersbys to judge whether they are worth breaking the law to
purchase. I noticed the corruption of the gendarmes at every checkpoint – each
demanding his share of the driver’s cash. The fact that Cameroon is one of the
most corrupt countries in the world is never more obvious than at checkpoints.
I noticed a 1 year old child in one village being feed whiskey sachets by its
older siblings. On and on this journey goes until…

Abong Mbang. The city seems to pop out of
nowhere just when you think all hope is lost. At 11:00am, we pulled into the
bus station. I got out and purchased my ticket for the next bus to leave for
Bertoua, which would leave when all the tickets are purchased. I bought an
omelet and waited in the bus for 2 hours for the seats to be bought. Drunk men
outside the window ask me to be their wives and I tell them about my fictional
PCV husband who lives in another region
of Cameroon. At 1:00pm, the bus finally takes off, this time with a driver
whose sobriety might be questioned. 2 hours later, I arrive in Bertoua. Perhaps
I’m a bit grungier and certainly more exhausted, but after the 13 hour drive, I
am thankfully to have arrived in one piece.

So you think that trip was the hellish journey I
was talking about? Oh, how you are wrong! That trip was a piece of cake
compared to the return voyage to Lomié! I quickly banked in Bertoua, went out
for delicious carp and grilled baton de manioc, and was chased back to
the case by the approaching storm.

Did I say storm? Yes. I didn’t give the storm a
second thought that night, but the next morning, I cursed that storm all day. I
woke up at 5:00am and went to get an omelet for breakfast. I headed over to the
agence de voyage and rented a seat in a car leaving for Abong Mbang. I
was given the stick shift seat, but unfortunately in cars there is no leg
space. I was left to straddle the stick shift the entire trip as my butt heated
up from the engine beneath me and as the driver constantly made grunts at how
my legs were blocking his ability to change gears. We arrived in Abong Mbang
with no problems 2 hours later. I got out and bought a ticket for Lomié – it so
happened that I bought the last ticket for the next bus leaving for Lomié.

I ran over and reencounter the same drunk fellows who once again asked me to be
their wives as I shoved my bags in their faces to put on top of the bus. After
declining their not-tempting offers, I climbed into the back seat of the van
between a three woman and a baby. I wasn’t thrilled about sitting next to a
baby, but I was determined to remain positive. My positivity began to crack
just a tad when the mother decided to give her 1-year-old child a sucker, which he didn’t know how to eat, and instead ended up sticking it to my arm for
the next 30 minutes until the mother took it for herself.

30 minutes into the voyage and my arm was as
sticky as it could be and the road dust already began to coat my body in blood
red dirt. I took heed from the other woman on the bus and unwrapped my foulard
headscarf and wrapped it around my face. I dozed off, hoping that would take my
mind off the suffocating dust. 2.5 hours later we got to Mindarou. We all
climbed out for a pit stop. Most passengers in the car were traveling to Lomie
for the first time, and exclaimed at the better-than-expected road conditions.
I reassured them that the road was going to change for the worse…and quickly at
that. I followed the other woman, who I assumed were going to pee. We lined up
along a wall on the side of the road and relieved ourselves. It was after this
moment that I texted my mom “I literally whip it out and pee in public all over
Cameroon now”. I have officially lost all sense of modesty and shame. I bonded
with the kind Northern Fulbe woman when her child accidentally took a pee on my
foot.

Shortly we were back on the road. I watched the
faces of the passengers as we left Mindarou and as the forest began denser.
Several passengers pointed out at particularly large or odd-looking trees. Many
exclaimed out loud at the beauty. The road, however, was awful. The nights rain
made everything muddy and made all the potholes smalls lakes. About one hour
from Mindarou at 12:00 we approached a long line of boubillers. This
meant only one thing – we were stuck.

The bus stopped and the driver got out and
walked a distance. When he turned he told us there was a large mudslide/mudpit
where one minivan was stuck and where nobody could get around. And that wasn’t
to mention that in front of us was nearly 10 boubillers who would surely
only worsen the path.

Everyone got out and walked to the scene of the
crime. We were all dusty, disheveled and tired. While walking we looked like
refugees who had little time to prepare to leave their village. When we reached
the mudpit, the scene looked grave. The minibus was tipped over in the
mud and the other side was far too deep for any vehicle to traverse. The men
hiked up their pants and headed to work pulling out the cruiser as us woman
found seats on a giant fallen tree to watch the progression. It wasn’t even at
this point that I lost all hope. Instead I sat on the log and listened to the
birds and insects around me. Most amazing of all was that the area could’ve
been a butterfly house. All around me were butterflies of all sizes and colors
which would fly up and land on my shoulders and legs. I was engulfed by 10 or
so butterflies at any given time. It was beautiful. Amidst such a mess, there
was such beauty.

After about two hours, I began to get tired. I
went back to the van and climbed in with the mother and her child and with an
older woman who couldn’t walk. I tried to sleep but the baby next to me became
restless and the mother was sleeping. To prevent his crying, I climbed out of
the van and played peek-a-boo through the back window for two hours as the line
of cars, cruisers and more boubillers grew larger. Chinese workers
arrived, Belgians arrived. Half the world’s continents were represented at this
mud pit, yet nobody could seem to fix the problem.

Peek-a-boo buddy

Out of nowhere, villagers from a nearby village began
to show up with a wide assortment of bush meat to sell to us starving
passengers. Woman carried lievre, monkey, and tiger-cat in sauces in
pots on their heads to make a profit on us unfortunate souls. In addition to
the a forest worth of bush meat, the nearby villages brought bags upon bags of
sachets, which ended up being a big hit among the stranded passengers who
figured if they were going to be sleeping on the road tonight, they might as
well get wasted.

While I was starving and thirsty (my water had
run out), I refused to eat the bush meat for several health and personal
reasons. Passangers from our cruiser walked back and forth from the van to give
updates. Each person said the situation was grave and that we were likely going
to be sleeping on the road tonight. As 5:00pm rolled around, I resigned to the
fact this was likely the truth. I rolled my headscarf up in a ball and created
a pillow as the sun began to set behind the tall trees.

As I tried to doze off, the two mothers sitting
next to me began giving their children whiskey and vodka sachets. Each child
drank a total of 1 whiskey sachet (about 1-2 shots worth) and 1 vodka sachet
(again, 1-2 shots worth). The infants quickly became drunk. At first the scene
was sickly amusing. While I was repulsed by the fact these children just took
shots of alcohol at the age of 1, it was funny to see them reaching for more
sachets asking for more, seeing them bob around drunk in their mothers’ laps, and
laughing at nothing at all. But after some time, the scene became disturbing. I
wouldn’t know how disturbing until later at night. After much screeching,
yelling, and eventually cheering, the stuck cruiser was dislodged from the mud.
That solved one problem, but now the problem was that nobody else could get
through.

Each boubiller progressed through the
intraversable mud, only to get stuck and to have the previously traveled
vehicle tow it out. And so this continued, with all 10 boubillers in
front of us, until it was our turn. As all the passengers watched from the
sidelines, myself, the old woman, and the young woman and her son braced
ourselves as our cruiser moved forward. The driver floored the gas in hopes it
wouldn’t get stuck, but it quickly surrendered in the muddy depths of the pit.
The men gathered around the cruiser and began digging it out. After about 1
hour of digging, the driver was able to move us a bit, nearly tipping the
entire cruiser over in the process. We got stuck again a few feet away and the
men began to dig us out with their machetes again. 30 more minutes of this and
a group of 20 men pushed our cruiser out of the mud. After another near-fatal
tip-over, the bus was out! I expected the driver to stop, but he didn’t.

Pushing the van out of the mud

We get driving down the road fast. I asked why
we weren’t stopping for the other passengers to re-board, and the driver said
that there was another mud pit ahead and he wanted to get the van in line.
About 2km away, we again came to a halt. The driver got out and walked ahead to
help the stuck vehicles. When the fellow passengers caught up on foot, they
were exhausted, but once again took seats to watch the fiasco happen in the mud.
While the mud pit wasn’t as bad, the cruiser could not get out because it was
broken and nobody could tow it out. We waited and waited. I fell asleep, trying
to get some rest because I was sure that if we were spending the night in the
rainforest, I wouldn’t sleep too well with people constantly reaching in the window to grab at me.

The scene sounded like a construction site.
Large lights light up the night and the mud pit so that the work could continue
throughout the night. Boubillers continued to try to tow the van out. At
about 8:00pm, our driver ran back to the car and floored the gas. The few of us
that were in the van grasped on for our lives as he sped toward the mud pit. We
plunged in and I was sure we would get through. We nearly did…before we got
stuck. Again, men got to work for 1 hour using their machetes to hack our way
out and using their hands to push the van. We finally dislodged at 9:00pm and
reloaded with passengers. At this point, I had had awful diarrhea on the side
of the road (like I said, I lost all sense of modesty and shame long ago) and
was beginning to feel nauseous. Everyone got in the vehicle covered in mud,
dust, and sweat. The van began moving and I began praying that the rest of the
road would be passable.

Thankfully it was, but barely. At midnight, our
van rolled into Lomié. I disembarked, collected my bags, and headed home. After
taking a cold shower, I climbed into bed with chills, a high fever, and a host
of other symptoms, which I would find out two days later was yet another bout
of malaria. It was merely the cherry on top of the most awful 24 hours I have
spent to date in Cameroon.

0
comments:

Post a Comment

Hello there! Thanks for reading my blog and leaving a comment! I moderate and approve all comments just to make sure they aren't spam, because let's face it, we get enough spam in our lives as it is. So as long as you're a human being, you should see your comment up here in a few hours along with a response. Cheers!

WELCOME TO SAID BY RED

This blog is meant to record and share my personal experiences, ramblings, emotions, and anecdotes as I serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Ngatt, Adamawa. Read more in the 'About' section.

If you have any questions or comments for me, either post them here or email me at karenkilberg[at]saidbyred[dot]com and feel free to follow me on Twitter @karenkilberg.

BIENVENUE AU CAMEROUN!

Cameroon is called 'Africa in Miniature' due to its diversity of languages, cultures, and geographies. I live in Ngatt (by the big lake), in the Adamawa region - the transitional zone of Cameroon and the first region of the Grand North.

DISCLAIMER

In no way does this blog represent the views of the United States Government, Peace Corps, the Republic of Cameroon, or any other person or organization mentioned herein.

On the legal side of things: all images, videos, and ideas that are used here or that inspire me will be attributed to their rightful owner. All things not credited are my own. That goes for photos, ideas, videos etc.